


Summer Fever

by suganegg



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suganegg/pseuds/suganegg
Summary: Akira fantasizes about Iwai.





	Summer Fever

**Author's Note:**

> I really like the idea of Akira being incredibly thirsty for Iwai.

“ _See ya_.”

It’s two simple words, two short syllables, but they never fail to set Akira’s cheeks ablaze. Spoken just above a whisper, a hoarse edge like that of a smoker’s tugging on the rough timbre of Iwai’s voice.

_See ya_.

That’s all it takes for Akira’s head to be set spinning; all it takes for him to mumble out some reply he doesn’t remember as he pushes out of the shop and into the alley, pointedly keeping his head down as he rushes past Caroline’s keen gaze. He throws out _hmm_ ’s and _uh-huh_ ’s as Morgana tries to talk to him on the subway, at least enough to make the cat think he’s listening, but Akira’s still preoccupied with the feeling of Iwai’s eyes on his back as he’d helped around the shop.

When he steps through the threshold of Leblanc, Sojiro already gone home for the night, the first thing Akira does is lock himself in the bathroom. He runs the faucet and splashes water onto his face, then braces his hands on the cold porcelain of the basin and leans in close to the mirror to study his reflection. This isn’t like him, to get so flustered and affected by some crush. Akira’s the type to know what he wants and how to get it, and to go into things without hesitation.

But Iwai is different.

There’s the fact that Akira’s still in high school, and then there’s Kaoru. Even disregarding Akira being a student, there’s no way Iwai would get into a relationship with a man that’s barely a few years older than his son. It just isn’t going to happen, Akira knows that, but he’s still saddled with this desperate attraction.

It was easier when Iwai was just the man that sold him weapons. Akira had still felt an immediate attraction, but he didn’t have to see Iwai that often, just when he needed to buy or sell something. But now here he is going to the shop multiple times a week and getting to know Iwai as a person, and it’s only intensified Akira’s feelings.  He’s like some lovesick puppy, clinging onto Iwai’s every word and hoping that he’ll notice the way that Akira does this or that and be impressed. Under the guise of finding places Kaoru may like, he’s even taken Iwai to spots where couples go for dates, hoping maybe the other man would take the hint. By this point, Akira had considered taking things into his own hands and being more aggressive by stating his feelings clearly, but his better judgement had told him not to push it. So here he is, stuck in a pathetic limbo of romance.

He sighs and pulls away from the sink, leaning against the door momentarily, and his thoughts stray back to Iwai’s parting words; Akira thinks about the husky, low tone and imagines Iwai behind him, leaning down close to whisper into his ear. It makes Akira shiver, and his hand strays to the front of his pants and passes over the fabric lightly. But the cramped bathroom with its dingy overhead lighting is the last place Akira wants to do something like this—he just hopes he can get Morgana out of his room.

“You were in there for a while. Are you alright?” Morgana asks as Akira steps out of the bathroom.

“I’m fine, just a little lightheaded.” He lies smoothly without missing a beat.

“Ooh, better go straight to bed then. Be careful on the stairs.” Morgana cautions.

Akira makes a noncommittal noise in response, taking the creaky stairs slowly. He strips out of his clothes when he gets to the attic, throwing on the loose sweatpants and t-shirt that he uses for pajamas. The attic is stuffy in the summer, the heat from the café below rising into the room with the lack of insulation not helping the situation either. Akira throws open the window, thinking vaguely that he should buy a rotating fan the next time he’s in Akihabara with Futaba.

“Hey, Morgana,” Akira says as he looks out over the dark street, an idea having come to him. “Don’t you want to spend the night at Futaba’s?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

"I was just thinking that with the heat wave, you’d be more comfortable somewhere that has air conditioning.” He tries to phrase it in the most nonchalant way possible, as if he’s simply looking out for Morgana’s well-being rather than his own interests. “You must be hot with all that fur.”

Akira turns and watches the cat mull over the idea; Morgana tilts his head this way and that as he hums in concentration, and Akira could practically see the gears turning in Morgana’s head.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay without me here to watch over you?” Morgana asks, making eye contact with Akira. “You said you weren’t feeling well.”

“I’m fine,” Akira reassures. “I’m probably still recuperating from overexerting myself in Mementos yesterday. Besides, I’m going straight to sleep. It’d be pretty boring for you just to watch me.”

Morgana thinks on the choice a bit longer before leaping up from his spot with a triumphant cry. “Alright! Since you suggested it, I’ll go over there!”

Akira can’t believe his contrived plan actually worked as he watches Morgana leave through the window and leap along the eaves of closely-packed roofs in the direction of the Sakura household. He waits until the small form of the cat and the sounds of his boisterous laughter—chuckling about getting to stay somewhere cool—have completely vanished before he all but throws himself onto the bed. From there, he doesn’t waste any time in laying back against the wall and kicking his pants off.

As he wraps his fingers around himself and strokes gently at first, he wonders what it would be like to have Iwai there with him, the bed dipping under their combined weight. He keeps up the train of thought, his mind spinning a narrative and building a scene: _Akira is pinned underneath Iwai, with the older man gripping Akira’s wrists above his head with one hand. Iwai traces his other hand along the lines of Akira’s body and slips it underneath his shirt to play with a nipple._ Akira speeds up the motions of his hand and follows the direction of his fantasy; his free hand pushes up his shirt and fingers close around the sensitive area. Akira’s eyes flutter closed and a moan falls from his lips as he tilts his head back.

What would Iwai do next? Akira imagines Iwai leaning down and drawing his mouth across his body from chest to neck. _The rough stubble scrapes against Akira’s smooth skin, and Iwai laps against the irritated areas with his tongue. He turns his attention to Akira’s neck then, biting and sucking and marking Akira just above the edge of where his collar will cover, his tongue following up to sooth spots that he had grazed with his teeth. His breath is hot on Akira’s ear now, heat building up between their bodies in the hazy summer night._

_“Do you want it?” Iwai whispers._

“Please,” Akira begs out loud to the empty room.

_At the response, the corner of Iwai's mouth quirks into a smirk as he stares down at Akira. He lets go of Akira’s wrists and presses their lips together, finally._ Akira bucks his hips upward, imagining himself grinding against Iwai. _Iwai moans against Akira’s mouth, and Akira parts his lips to allow Iwai access. Akira is pliant and unresisting underneath Iwai's ministrations, readily offering himself up, letting Iwai do whatever he wants. Achingly slowly, Iwai’s hands slide lower and lower, catching on the belt loops of Akira’s jeans_ (a little anachronistic, maybe, considering Akira is already out of his pants—but hey, it’s his fantasy). _Iwai deftly unbuttons the pants and slides them off, then palms at Akira’s erection through his underwear._

_“This worked up already, huh? Young guys like you sure got it easy.”_

_But it’s not like Iwai isn’t worked up himself; Akira can tell, had felt it when he grinded up against Iwai’s hips. Iwai strips Akira’s shorts off and wraps his hand around Akira’s length. His hands are large, made rough and calloused by yakuza work and handling weapons. Iwai has a strong grip, roughly stroking Akira off and smearing the precum that’s leaking from his cock._ Akira adjusts his own pace and grip accordingly, trying to match the fantasy as well as he can. Already having an idea of how he wants the encounter to continue, Akira flops his arm over the edge of the bed, the top half of his body leaning over awkwardly, and gropes on the floor just at the tip of his reach. His fingers finally catch on something, and he fishes up a bottle of lube that he tosses beside him on the mattress.

_Iwai stops stroking Akira and instead takes the moment to undo his own clothing. Akira pants and licks his own lips, the taste of Iwai still there, his eyes fixed in anticipation on the man in front of him. Iwai catches his gaze and smiles knowingly._

_"You’re like that in the shop, too. Always got your eyes on me. Nothin’ gets past you—too damn observant for your own good.”_

_Iwai brushes the bangs from Akira’s eyes, and Akira feels himself blush from the softness of the gesture, but he lifts his chin defiantly and puts on a confident face. “How am I **not**_ _supposed to stare at someone so fucking hot? It’s unfair.”_

_Iwai laughs, “Flattery ain’t gonna get you anywhere, kid. Don’t think you’ll get a discount by buttering me up.”_

_"Then, what about by giving you the best fuck you’ve ever had?”_ There’s Akira’s impudent nature showing in the make-believe dialogue, the one that pushes him to challenge anything and everything, even in fantasy.

_“We’ll see about that, now won’t we?”_

_Iwai grabs the bottle of lube and coats his fingers, pressing into Akira._ In reality, Akira follows suit on his own. As he slips a slick finger inside himself, Akira wonders what Iwai’s own cock is like. Long? Thick? Would it stretch and fill him so completely that all he could focus on would be the forged connection between the two of them, the motion of their bodies, the desperate heat?

Akira pushes in another finger and raises his unoccupied hand to his face to inspect it. His fingers are long and slim, delicate aside from the callouses that had developed from gripping daggers and guns. Yusuke had told him that he has beautiful hands—perfect, really—and that he should let him sketch them sometime. But would these hands be enough for Akira’s purpose? He thinks distantly that he should try going to one of the stores in the red-light district sometime, if he could ditch Morgana.

While the Iwai in Akira’s imagination takes out his fingers and replaces them with his member, Akira adds a final digit and slides it in to the base of his knuckles. _Iwai thrusts into him none too gently, and Akira’s back arches as he moans. He wraps his legs around Iwai’s waist, drawing them closer, his toes digging into the thin bedding. Akira rocks his hips, trying to hijack Iwai’s pace and force him to go faster. Akira may look demure and submissive, but his impudence drives a demanding side in bed._

_"Is that the best you have?” Akira taunts. “Age catching up to you?”_

_"Shut it,” Iwai fires back. “I’m just getting started.”_

_His next movement has Akira seeing stars and crying out—_ it corresponding to Akira hitting his prostate with his fingers— _but Akira quickly bites his lip to stifle some of the noise; the window’s open, after all_. _He throws his head back against the pillow and glares at Iwai through narrowed eyes._

_“Asshole,” Akira pants. “You did that on purpose.”_

_Iwai has a self-satisfied look on his face. “What did I tell you? Besides, sounded like you liked it.”_

_To punctuate his point, Iwai snaps his hips forward and hits the spot again; any snarky remark that may have been coming to Akira’s tongue gets past his lips in the form of a drawn-out moan. Iwai’s hands slide down Akira’s thighs, leaving gooseflesh in their wake, to grip his hips. He’s holding Akira hard enough to bruise, pushing and pulling in the fast rhythm that Akira had wanted._

Without another a person, all Akira himself can do is push back harder against the bed, legs spread apart and planted firmly on the mattress, toes curling tightly into the sheets. One arm is raised above his head, tugging on the pillow, while his face is turned into it to muffle any noise. His cock needs attention after being neglected for so long, but Akira doesn’t want to touch himself; he wants to imagine Iwai making him come with _his_ cock alone, without any extra stimulation, and Akira doesn’t want to break the fantasy with incongruity.

He grinds against his hand, moving his hips desperately while the muscles of his thighs tremble with the exertion of keeping his lower body raised off the bed. Akira can feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach, a sweet, low heat. His breath comes out in short, labored pants colored by gasps and moans.

_“Iwa—ah—Iwai, I’m close,” Akira announces. “Don’t stop.”_

_Iwai chuckles, as close to the edge as Akira. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”_

_Iwai thrusts into Akira harder now, pushing their pace to the limits. The still summer air is broken by the sound of skin against skin and Iwai’s rough grunts overlapping with Akira’s sweet moans._ Akira repeats Iwai’s name again and again like a chant that’s somehow grounding him in the present moment while still immersing him in his fantasy. It’s that name that’s on Akira’s lips as he reaches his orgasm; he spills onto his stomach as his legs turn to jelly, and he collapses onto the bed. Akira lays on his back and blinks up at the ceiling, breath evening out as he comes down.

When he shivers as the sweat on his skin starts to cool, Akira forces himself to get up. He grabs some tissues and wipes away the mess from his stomach as well as he can before heading downstairs. It’s late, and would be too much effort to go to the bath house, so Akira takes some paper towels from the kitchen and heads into the bathroom. He wets a few of the towels with water from the sink, then uses the others to dry up; it's not exactly the most thorough method, but it gets rid of any lingering stickiness well enough for him to be satisfied.

Akira catches his reflection as he turns to head out, and instead takes a moment to inspect himself: his bangs are plastered to his forehead, eyes bright and clear, his bottom lip red and slightly swollen from where he had bit it, and everything is topped off with a pink flush that’s still present high on his cheeks. It’s not a bad look on himself, Akira decides.

He tilts his head then, inspecting his neck for hickeys that aren’t there. Really, it was the only thing that could make the sight of himself better—to be entirely wrecked by Iwai and then have lingering proof of their connection by beautifully marred skin. He presses his fingers against the side of his neck, where Iwai has the gecko tattoo that slithers out from beneath his turtleneck. Yeah, to have Iwai mark him right there in the matching location, that’d be perfect.

A groan escapes Akira as his mind begins to wander and create new situations. It’s incredible how just the thought of Iwai works Akira up so much, makes him so needy; Akira’s only complaint about it is that he can’t make these fantasies a reality with the man himself. He pushes that out of his mind for now though, settling on the decision that a second round is just what he needs to work out this frustration.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized one day while playing P5 after I had started writing this that the sink in Leblanc's is actually outside the bathroom, but I felt like changing it to be accurate would mess up what I had written, so I left it as-is. I also feel like I was a bit too linear and descriptive with Akira's fantasy, but it's a fic so it needs to be detailed and coherent, unlike how people's thoughts may actually work while doing that, right? Either way, it was kind of an experimental route for me; I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
